Binscombe Tales - The Complete Series

by John Whitbourn

  He did so, slowly perhaps and with an apology to each group of locals he passed, but come he did like a puppy to its bath. At length, upon his arrival at the door, Mrs Morton placed her formidable hand upon his back and propelled him through. At us, huddled together like a defeated tribe, she cast a leisurely glance that conveyed within it a degree of withering contempt worthy of a great actress. Then she made to sweep out when Disvan’s commanding tones broke the silence.

  ‘Mary Morton,’ he said, pointing at her but without the least trace of anger in his voice, ‘woman and girl I’ve known you, and you never were any good. You’ll come to a bad end.’

  I’d never heard Disvan directly rebuke anyone in this way before and in Binscombe terms it should have been the equivalent of excommunication and lifelong exile rolled into one.

  For all the effect on Mrs Morton it might as well have been a sheep’s growl. Eyes blazing with grim delight she wordlessly advanced, like the war machine of a science fiction epic, upon Disvan, stood before him a second, and then, with a gesture of disdain, flicked off his Panama hat.

  The whole episode, from the moment of her entry, had seemed improper, and seeing Disvan, bareheaded and saddened, gazing at Mary Morton’s retreating back, made it doubly so. Accordingly, as if by common consent, when the pub door slammed shut behind the female fighting fury, one and all acted as if nothing had occurred.

  With considerable dignity, given the circumstances, Disvan retrieved his hat and resumed his place at the bar. The landlord now felt able to abandon his bottles and joined us once more.

  ‘There goes a man who must envy the dead,’ he said.

  ‘Poor devil,’ I replied. ‘Why does he stand for it?’

  ‘God knows.’

  As ever, Disvan winced slightly at this cavalier attitude to the third commandment. ‘Now, now,’ he said, ‘I’m sure she must have some redeeming features otherwise he wouldn’t stay with her.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure. It has to be said that although Morton’s a very nice man, a very nice man indeed, he’s also a fool and too weak to leave her. You know that she’s off with other men, don’t you?’

  I raised my eyebrows in a gesture that committed me to no particular opinion and Disvan said, ‘So they say,’ in a tone that meant: yes, I do know and no, I don’t approve of gossip.

  ‘Flaunts it in his face she does, but still he don’t do anything about it. Too weak and foolish.’

  ‘Since when,’ said Disvan, ‘has a weakness of character made anyone a fool? It’s just the way he was born.’

  ‘Ah, well now you’re getting back to the morals of fish and Nazi war crimes, and I’m afraid I’m not much of a one for philosophy.’

  The landlord turned away, bringing a physical end to the conversation and pseudo-inquest on the distasteful incident which had preceded it. He took with him the monster pike which had lain on the bar throughout. On his way he raised it to his face level as if in conversation.

  ‘It’s all your fault,’ he informed it.

  * * *

  ‘Oh yes. Horrible agony!’

  Inhibitions loosened by barley wine, Doctor Bani-Sadr was regaling, if that is the right word, the assembled company in the Argyll with an account of Mrs Morton’s sudden and tragic death.

  ‘But how on earth did she come to eat a fish-hook, of all things?’ said Mr Disvan.

  ‘Because it was embedded in a fish she was eating at the time. It was an old, rusty hook that the fish must have swallowed whole at some point in the past and in the course of time it became enveloped in the flesh of the still living fish. It’s an unusual process but not unknown.’

  ‘Still, you’d think she’d have felt it in her mouth when she chewed the fish.’

  ‘Did you ever see her eat?’ said the landlord. ‘ “Guts”, we used to call her at school, ‘cause she’d put food down like it was going to be snatched away from her. A very distressing sight.’

  ‘That’s what I presume happened,’ said the doctor. ‘Anyway, by the time I was called and then the ambulance got her into hospital, half her insides were torn to shreds. Horrible agony as I said. Nothing we could do to save her—disembowelled from the inside, she was. Last time I saw anything that bad was a booby trap the Mau-Mau rigged up when I was doing my National Service. It did much the same to my colour-sergeant.’

  ‘You said she’d come to a bad end, Mr Disvan,’ said the landlord.

  ‘I wasn’t prophesying when I said it,’ he replied, ‘and I wouldn’t wish what happened to her on anyone.’

  ‘Ay-up!’

  This sotto voce warning came from someone who chanced to be facing the door while the above exchange went on. We instinctively quietened and looked cautiously round to see that Mr Morton had entered the bar. He was dressed in a dark suit with black armbands attached with clumsy stitches and he seemed as genuinely sombre as his attire.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Disvan, Doctor Bani-Sadr, gentlemen.’

  ‘Hello there, Harry,’ said the landlord. ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  ‘No, thank you kindly, I’ve got to be at the funeral shortly. I just popped in to say a general thank you to you all for the card and words of commiseration I’ve received. Perhaps I might see a few of you at the service. You’d be very welcome.’

  There was a polite non-committal rumble in response to this invitation and the proprieties thus being served, Morton took his leave.

  ‘Is anyone going?’ asked our host.

  ‘Not I,’ said someone.

  ‘The only reason I’d go is to make damn sure she goes under,’ said another of obviously similar opinion.

  ‘We all clubbed together to send a wreath,’ rejoined the first, ‘to show a bit of respect for Harry. Why go any further and make hypocrites of ourselves?’

  ‘Still, someone ought to go, to represent the village. How about you, Mr Disvan?’

  ‘Very well, I’ll go, even though she never bore any love for me.’

  ‘When did she ever bear any love for anyone in her life?’ said the man who’d criticised her before.

  The landlord leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in my ear, ‘She led him a terrible dance when he was a youngster, enticed him on and then jilted him. That’s why he’s so bitter.’

  ‘Well, when you’ve all finished speaking ill of the dead,’ announced Mr Disvan, ‘I still think there ought to be a village contingent, however small, at the interring. Will you accompany me, Mr Oakley?’

  I had felt a guilty twinge of sympathy for the friendless Mary Morton and so said that I would.

  ‘So will I,’ said Doctor Bani-Sadr. ‘Since I both delivered her and was there when she died, I might as well see the story through.’

  ‘Three of you, that’ll do,’ said the landlord. ‘Mind you, you’d best be off in a minute if you’re to catch the service.’

  ‘Let’s not take things too far,’ said Mr Disvan. ‘Remember who we’re talking about. It’ll be enough if we’re present at the graveside afterwards. Your round I believe, Mr Oakley?’

  * * *

  At length Mr Disvan consulted his digital watch and said we should be going. The church was a mere half mile away and so we set off on foot at an easy pace through the intent grouplets of Saturday shoppers.

  ‘So you were there when she died were you, doctor?’ said Mr Disvan.

  ‘I was. One of the most harrowing deaths I’ve seen in forty years of medical practise, I might add.’

  ‘Because of the pain she was in?’ I tentatively suggested.

  ‘Well no... not entirely.’

  Mr Disvan’s tone was far more definite. ‘No. Because of what she said.’

  Doctor Bani-Sadr stopped in his tracks and stared at Disvan with mixed suspicion and curiosity. A group of ladies who’d been half-heartedly inspecting a greengrocer’s window display turned to regard our little drama.

  ‘How did you know?’ said the doctor.

  ‘I didn’t,’ Disvan replied. ‘It just seemed un
likely that Mary Morton would leave the world behind without a parting shot—at poor old Harry I suppose.’

  Bani-Sadr seemed placated by this response. ‘Ah I see. Well, as long as it’s only deduction you’re using this time that’s okay.’

  This seemed the sort of statement that was worth following up in the hope of obtaining precious information about the Disvan phenomenon but now was neither the time or the place.

  Seeing that nothing violent or interesting would come of our little debate the women turned back slowly to their scrutiny of fruit and veg.

  We went on our way as before.

  ‘Do you want to know what she said?’

  ‘Only if you want to tell us.’

  Bani-Sadr considered this for a small while.

  ‘Yes I think I do although I’m not clear as to why. In the normal course of things doctors have to keep a lot of secrets.’

  ‘Well, just as you wish.’

  ‘Just between us, mind you—oh, and you too of course, Mr Oakley—but no further.’

  ‘You have our word,’ said Disvan speaking for me (albeit correctly) as he did distressingly often.

  ‘What appalled me, you see, was the bitterness. I’ve never seen such an intensity of bitterness and malevolence—not just at her husband, although he got the brunt, but also at the nurses, the world, the universe. She was willing to take them all on.’

  ‘That was her great strength, if you can call it that,’ Disvan concurred.

  ‘Well she certainly had strength from some source or other, but in the end it didn’t do her any good. Quite the opposite, in fact, for it made her agony long and drawn out. We were just applying more powerful sedatives and getting ready to operate when she surged out of the doze we’d managed to get her in and sat up straight on the table—something she shouldn’t have been able to do with all the damage sustained and all the drugs she’d got in her. Anyway, possible or not, she sat up and grabbed Harry by the lapels—we’d brought him in since she was likely to go at any moment—and dragged him towards her so they were eyeball to eyeball. “Don’t think I’m going to let you go fishing!” she shouted and then fell back. Dead.’

  ‘Sounds a ghastly scene,’ I said, visualising it all too clearly.

  ‘You don’t know the half of it. Even when she was gone we still had a struggle with her. She’d gripped Harry’s lapels so tight it took two nurses and the anaesthetist to prise her fists open so he could get away. By that time poor old Harry was in a fine old state. Imagine it, your wife’s last words being a threat. And a vicious, empty one at that.’

  Curiosity overcame my better judgement and, just as we drew near the church, I could not forbear to ask something that had been preying on my mind since I heard of Mrs Morton’s death.

  ‘Between us, do you think that... I mean, is it possible that Harry...’

  ‘That Harry what?’ said Disvan seemingly nonplussed.

  ‘Well, given the way in which she died and what caused it, you know... a fishing hook.’

  Enlightenment clearly dawned on Disvan’s face.

  ‘You mean did Harry murder her?’

  His voice was loud enough to attract the attention of several passers-by and I keenly avoided their ensuing scrutiny.

  ‘Well yes, that’s what I do mean.’

  ‘Put your mind at rest, Mr Oakley,’ said Disvan as Doctor Bani-Sadr nodded firmly in agreement, ‘the only thing Harry has ever hurt or ever could hurt is a fish or the maggots he uses to catch them. The fact that it was a fish hook of all things that took Mary Morton away is just one of the proofs that the Almighty has a sense of humour.’

  * * *

  The funeral was a wretched affair. Shamefully few people issued from the church after the memorial service to join us by the graveside. Aside from us three, only her husband, a distant and aged relative (whom we later learned was very keen on such services) and the priest were there to see Mary Morton off on her final journey.

  Father Wiltshire was well aware of the nature of the person he was burying, but with the Christian charity and easy-going nature for which he was well known, he still managed to put a depth of feeling into his words. I, alas, could muster no such creditable sentiments and so began to study the people gathered together for this inadequate peace-making with death.

  The elderly, distant relative seemed unaware of her surroundings and looked blankly to a horizon personal to herself. I speculated that she was travelling down the years and reviewing the other, more grievous, funerals she had doubtless known.

  Doctor Bani-Sadr, who was well known to be a free thinker or even pagan, ignored the priest’s words and allowed his gaze to range widely from the undertaker’s bearers waiting patiently by with the coffin, to the heads of vaguely curious passers-by visible over the churchyard wall and then back to the grave which yawned to take Mary’s remains into eternity.

  Mr Disvan appeared, for all I could tell, to be listening to Father Wiltshire’s words of comfort and consolation but where his thoughts ranged, as always, I could not discern.

  At length I looked at Harry Morton and was shocked to see that, even more than the doctor, he was paying no attention to the service. His rapt attention was fixed beyond us, on the glint, just visible between the churchyard yew trees, of Broadwater Lake. Meanwhile, presumably unbeknown to himself, his hands made a reeling motion as he played an imaginary fish.

  * * *

  ‘Long time no see, Harry,’ said the landlord. ‘How are you finding the single life ?’

  ‘Very well, thank you.’

  ‘What’ll you have?’

  ‘A rum and Coca-Cola, I think, please.’

  ‘What? Not the usual half of mild?’

  ‘No, not today. I fancy a rum and coke.’

  ‘Large or small?’

  ‘Large, certainly.’

  ‘Coming straight up.’

  ‘Been doing much fishing?’ I asked innocently, clearly remembering the scene by the graveside even though several months had since passed.

  ‘No. I thought I should observe a period of mourning as a mark of respect to poor Mary.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘But of course one can’t go mourning for ever,’ he continued eagerly, ‘and it’s about fishing that I’ve come to see you all.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Disvan.

  ‘Well, what I had in mind was a fishing expedition down to the coast. I could organise a boat for each day and lodgings in a bed and breakfast place. We could take beer and sandwiches out with us when we’re fishing and then go and visit the bright lights when we’re not.’

  ‘Sounds fine,’ said Disvan. ‘You say you’d organise it?’

  ‘Yes, start to finish.’

  ‘How will you find the time?’

  ‘That’s the least of my worries, I’ve got plenty of time nowadays.’

  ‘We thought you were decorating the house, inside and out,’ said the landlord.

  ‘Oh, that can wait. It’ll still be there when we get back.’

  ‘Not all of us have rods.’

  ‘I’ve got a number of spare ones all ready to use. I’ve been using my leisure to overhaul my fishing tackle, you see, so it’s all in tip-top condition and raring to go. If we need anything more I’ll hire it.’

  ‘Well you seem to have it all thought out, Harry,’ Mr Disvan commented, seemingly impressed.

  ‘I have. What about you, Mr Oakley, I take it you’ll be joining us?’

  ‘But I don’t fish.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You can always learn or just come along for the beer and company.’

  ‘But...’

  ‘No buts please, Mr Oakley, you come along and you’ll thank me for it afterwards.’

  ‘Well, okay then.’

  ‘Good. Right, I’ll make a list of the rest.’

  And so it was that, within the space of ten minutes, the transformed and forceful Harry Morton had signed most of us up in his little venture and even extracted deposit money from ma
ny. The landlord had agreed to supply quantities of bottled beer as his contribution to the jaunt and others had promised to bring provisions.

  ‘Right then, that’s all settled. I’ll see about the boat and accommodation for the weekend and I’ll fix up a mini-bus to get us there. We’ll meet outside the Argyll, 7 o’clock sharp Friday evening, okay?’

  A ragged chorus of yes sort of noises answered this and, thus placated, Harry took both himself and his optimistic bustling energy out of the pub.

  ‘Was that Harry Morton, or an engaging impostor?’ asked the landlord.

  ‘It was a post-liberation-of-the-slaves Harry,’ said someone.

  ‘A walking advertisement for bereavement,’ said another.

  ‘I’m told that when the life assurance people pay up he’ll be quite well off,’ a third chipped in.

  The landlord smiled benevolently. ‘Life, I’d like you to meet Harry Morton. Harry Morton, meet Life. I hope you’ll get on together.’

  * * *

  In the event, Mr Morton’s arrangements for the weekend trip were faultless. Our party was conveyed by the promised mini-bus to Coast Lodge, a beach-side boarding house of quite unreasonable comfort and friendliness. We went en masse, after an excellent tea, to inspect the craft Harry had hired for us and within an hour of our arrival by the sea we were venturing forth upon it. The owners of the guest house, a big-built man and his attractive wife came down to the beach with their two dogs to wave us off. Even the weather seemed willing to add its blessing to Mr Morton’s brain child and granted us a warm, clear and still evening. In due course the stars came out and those of us who were not fishing, myself included, could give our full attention to the marvellous display they provided.

  It was, I decided, an idyllic setting. We had moored perhaps a mile offshore at a point equidistant from the silent bright lights of Hastings on one side and Eastbourne on the other. Behind us were scattered points of yellow light marking the position of Pevensey and Pevensey Bay and I looked, without success, to see if I could make out the dark bulk of the hybrid Romano-Norman castle that we had passed in the bus earlier on.